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Water hissed as the pot over the fire began to boil. Raede snatched up a cotton cloth on her way to the fireplace.
"Still no answer? Do you, perhaps count yourself cleverer than others of your sex? It's true that the cleverest of you know to keep your mouths shut, but why change your character now? Or do you fancy yourself a man? I've met others of your ilk...pathetic half creatures aspiring to something far above your stations. You...for all your bloody reputation and swaggering claims...you've never had the nerve to kill me yourself. It's all a pack of lies isn't it? I suspected from the first, ever since I deduced your sex. How very like a woman, to invent a reputation you cannot possibly have gained honestly. For all the stories, I've yet to see you kill like a man...in cold blood...without female squeamishness."
He was hoping to goad her into killing him, not a good thing. It would be foolish to return like for like; in the condition he was in overstimulation could prove deadly. Raede swallowed her ire and lifted the iron pot down from its hook. Hot water sloshed out onto the floor and onto her clothing. Damnation, that burns.
Still, it was not to be ignored that her reputation was slipping. First Garth and now Holmes, suspecting the falseness of her carefully constructed reputation. The problem deserved some thought. Later.
Dipping the end of the cloth in hot water, she carefully began to clean the blood from his injured ear.
"Nothing to say? I'm disappointed. You always had plenty of sauce before. Did you leave it behind, in Newgate?"
Razor tongued bastard, she thought, almost fondly.
There was no accounting for it; rather than soothing him her silence was stoking his temper. What maggot had he got in his brain?
"You've never lacked for words before. Why don't you speak? Damn you!" At the despairing curse an image sprang free of the control in his mind, of a tiny room in complete darkness, complete silence. Days of deprivation and confinement, without even the hated voice of Moriarty to fill the emptiness. When Moriarty's men had finally dragged him out, he had almost welcomed them in spite of the torments which followed.
"...damn you..."
She snatched at the first remark that occurred. "You're not in a particularly reasonable mood right now, are you, Holmes?" she threw at him.
"I..." His breathing gave a little shudder. "Did you expect me to be?"
"I suppose not, under the circumstances."
"Your perceptiveness overwhelms me."
"Not to the detriment of your wit, one would hope."
"My facilities are more than adequate to deal with the likes of you."
Raede gave what she hoped would be a comforting laugh. "That remains to be seen, my dear opponent."
"Opponent? Still mincing words? Call me your enemy and be done with it. What have you to lose, as this will be our final duel."
"There is a great deal of acreage between opponents and enemies, Holmes. I am not your enemy, you see."
"Are you not?" His lip curled. "But, how unfortunate. I am yours."
"I have never doubted it."
"And still you assert that the reverse is not true? How magnanimous of you. It hardly suits your reputation."
"But you have discounted my reputation already, and I am prepared to accede to the accusation."
"Gracious of you." His tone was losing its bite, and the whipcord muscles beneath his ashen skin relaxed with barely perceptible twitches and shudders. "I suppose you propose to paint yourself as one of Rafael's angels."
"I'm not prepared to go quite so far, and yet neither am I the Lilith that you imagine me to be." Raede drew in a breath and let it flow away. "Shall we place me somewhere between Peter's gate and Lucifer's threshold, and call a truce between us for tonight?"
"Hardly," His sneer failed, and a haunted look swept across his face. "I sent you to Newgate. You said...I remember...you swore that we would meet again, under very different circumstances."
The wall binding his thoughts was wearing thin. A memory escaped; her face, distorted with fury, spitting words born of humiliation and wounded pride. "...that the tides would turn. I didn't believe you."
Another memory...his mind was becoming slightly chaotic...gave lie to the claim. He had believed her threat. Looking over his shoulder for days after her escape from Newgate. Refusing to eat in public places. Carrying a gun at all times. Thoughts of her probable intentions had dogged him and disrupted his life for months, and the curved bit of ivory she had slipped onto the table beside his bed as he slept... What she had considered a skillfully executed and amusing coup had sent him to ground for weeks.
"It doesn't matter, now. It was a long time ago."
The lines on his face smoothed. "Have they...turned...then? So soon?"
"Just rest for now, Holmes." She freed the blood crusted hair from his forehead, noting the complete dilation of his pupils. Likely he had moved far distant from physical pain by now. "It won't be much longer..."
"Am I dying?" Regret flavored the question, but no fear. "No...it wouldn't have been poison, would it?" His brow furrowed in concentration. "He's coming for me, then, isn't he? You've been acting on his orders all along. I should have..."
"He's not coming. for you..."
"...his hand...stretches out for me once again. I can feel the shadow of his dark wings...I never doubted my eventual death. I never hoped. That is one weapon which I have stolen from him, from both of you..." his voice trailed off and he turned his face away from her to stare blindly into the fire.
"You're safe here, Holmes. James Moriarty has no power here."
"..don't...take me for a fool...why do I feel so...damned lightheaded?" His speech had slowed, and taken on a slight drag. Holmes' eyes seemed riveted on the poker she had left leaning against the grate. It seemed to glow red-hot in the reflected light. "Is it to be fire, first? Moriarty preferred small bits of wood and hooks and thin knives, to begin with..."
"No fire. Nothing will hurt you. Not here. Trust me, Holmes..." she broke off. It was a foolish thing to expect of him at this point.
"Sometimes, I was glad it was James Moriarty. For all his petty villainy, there was no real imagination or understanding in his torments. I knew...I knew it would have been much worse..." He fell silent, avoiding her eyes as he glanced to the parlor's door. "Moriarty is coming for me, isn't he?" There was almost a plea in his words.
"You'll be fine, Holmes. Just let yourself drift away. There is a place where there is no pain. A safe place. You are going there now." Raede continued to stroke his hair back, soothingly, knowing the rhythm would lull him into relaxing his control more quickly. Kular made the most intractable patients manageable and coaxed the most nervous into a state of complete relaxation.
Another invasion of memory...he had been there, when she crawled from the icy waters of the Thames, and collapsed. With four bullets in her, and a broken leg she wouldn't have had the strength to escape him. Why hadn't he taken her then? The answer gave her pause...and made her conscious of the need for more caution. Their minds were drifting together. She was invading his most private thoughts at a time when he had no defense against her invasion. True, he was her enemy and she owed him nothing, but still...in essence her soothing words were promising him her protection.
The temptation to probe his thoughts more deeply was almost too seductive; she drew her hands back from him and took a moment to enter a light trance, rebuilding her shields and centering her emotions.
When she opened her eyes a moment later, Holmes had turned his face back from the fire, light blinded eyes seeking her in the candles' glow. "Why are you waiting? What do you want from me? To admit that you have won in the end? Do you want me to admit that I am...at your mercy? Do you want me to beg you for death?" The words cut deeply, she could see it in his face, but still he continued. "I am. I do. You've won. Let me die, now, before...he comes to begin again."
"You won't die tonight, Holmes."
"I have nothing to bargain with, have I?"
"No."
His curled hand fell open.
"Holmes, look at me."
Dark eyes sought hers, stripped of the guarded coolness he always wore. A man's soul stood naked in the thrall of kular and despair.
The secret of the drug's preparation was known to few. Under its influence a man would answer all questions truthfully, obey commands. Used too often or in too strong a dose and he could be turned into what the Africans called zuvumbie, the walking dead. She shuddered to think of the recipe falling into the hands of an irresponsible monster like Moriarty.
By giving it to Holmes, she had made herself responsible for him.
A glint of silver, caught her eye. Someone had left a medallion, probably the ill-fated William's, draped across the back of a chair. Raede stretched out her hand to gather it up and dangle before him.
"Do you recognize this, Holmes?"
"Your...people...wear...them." He spoke slowly, as if trying to determine its significance. "Am I, then, responsible for the death of its former wearer?" he guessed, attempting to anticipate the direction of her thoughts.
"They are worn by those I take under my personal protection." She slipped the chain over his head, lifted it, and drew the bit of silver down to rest on his breast. "As long as you choose to wear it, Moriarty will not be allowed to touch you, nor will I allow it to be taken from you. Not while I live. From this night, until the day you choose to discard my protection, I stand between you and James Moriarty. Do you understand?"
Holmes seemed almost stunned for a moment.
Had he been in complete control of himself he would certainly have rejected the gesture. She waited curiously for his reaction.
"Yes...no," he said finally. "I understand...the significance, but...why..."
"The why of it doesn't matter. What matters is that you understand that this chain binds my honor. You know what the worth of that is. You remember. Just close your eyes and trust me...no...trust this, tonight."
He had drawn from her a promise, once, and it had cost her more than she had anticipated to keep it. It had cost her dearly, as Holmes had known it would, but she had paid. He hadn't expected...
"...hadn't expected you to return...hadn't expected that..." His thoughts were too close; she felt as if she were tangled up in his mind. Was this a side effect of the kular? If so, she have to be more cautious about using it in the future.
Finally, Holmes surrendered the last of his resistance. Drowsiness drew down the lids of his grey-blue eyes. He said nothing as she released the band from around his chest and slipped down the cloak. Most of his injuries were relatively minor. There were some deep enough that she had to take a few stitches, but most were small burns, tiny cuts and numerous large splinters of wood and metal. She could feel the kular blanketing his mind as she worked, caught him watching her occasionally, with sleepy curiosity. The fire was beginning to die by the time she had finished.
He roused enough to fight her when she tried to examine the extent of his most private injuries and she had to bind his legs as well. Since there was nothing she could do to ease his mortification, she merely accomplished the task as quickly and efficiently as possible.
It was a relief to discover that though the injuries must have been horribly painful nothing of a permanent nature had been done to him. When she had finished she pulled a clean sheet across him to restore his privacy and freed his arms and legs of their restraints. Holmes relaxed back into his half conscious drowse, not even flinching when she forced his shoulder back into place and set his broken fingers. His ear she could do nothing for without the proper poultice; it would take a while to prepare.
The fire had burned low. She paused for a moment to pile wood onto the grate. When she returned, one of his hands had crept up to lie across his chest, one linen swathed finger resting on the medallion. Half lidded eyes followed her movements, sleepily trusting.
A strange pain pierced her to the bone, and she knew a burning hatred for James Moriarty. Had he been within her reach at that moment, she would have struck him down without qualm or hesitation, just for the sheer pleasure of watching him die.
Holmes drank, unquestioningly, the glasses of watered wine she pressed on him, and then Raede coaxed him over onto his stomach, still keeping him modestly draped.
His entire back was lacerated and swollen. A myriad of small open sores oozed a yellowish, sickly sweet smelling liquid and she could see the dark shapes of thorns and splinters and wicked bits of barbed, hooked metal embedded in the wounds. These were much older than his other injuries, inflicted, possibly, at the beginning of his captivity.
It took another hour before she was satisfied that she had finished with him. Clean linen saturated with fewre and fennel plastered his back, held in place by more linen wrapped around his painfully thin chest.
He would need to be encouraged to replenish the reserves that his long imprisonment had drained; she suspected his eating habits would be inadequate to the requirements of his body. If necessary, there were always herbs to stimulate the appetite. It was his spirit that would require the greatest care. His pride was the double edged sword that could prove the deciding factor. Pride would push him to rejecting the protection he had accepted from the arms of kular drowse, but he needed that pride to bolster his will to recover. She couldn't simply push it aside.
Diplomacy would be required, of that she had no doubt. Raede sighed. It was not an art at which she excelled.
As she closed the parlor door behind her, she noted with approval that Garth had posted two guards at the door, and three others down the hall. She certainly didn't expect Holmes to be in any condition to try and escape right away, but extra caution was always advised. It wouldn't surprise her if Moriarty had already seen her hand in things, and he knew of the location of this house, curse the luck. He would make a push to recover his victim, had probably planned to do so from whatever medical facilities they would have taken Holmes to. Cat and mouse, snatching Holmes back after allowing him to think that he had escaped. Moriarty would be furious at her for ruining his game; it would be war between them now.
The thought gave her a great deal of pleasure.
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